The mustached commander of the Grey Dog unit, now with fewer than twenty soldiers under his command, frowned deeply.

“They just charged right in?”

He had set a trap—a tempting one, at that.

Yet, he hadn’t expected it to be sprung so recklessly.

His plan had been to use the trap to his advantage, creating multiple similar traps to confuse the enemy. If they couldn’t distinguish the real from the fake, they would hesitate to act.

That hesitation alone would mark half the battle won.

“They won’t charge recklessly. They’ll withdraw instead, unable to attack carelessly,” a loyal officer had assured him.

The Grey Dog, an independent guerrilla unit, was now little more than a memory of its former self. Defeat after defeat, and the death of Michi Hurrier, had demanded accountability, and this mission was part of that reckoning.

The mustached commander had been tasked with disrupting the Naurillia army’s rear forces, limiting their movements.

He had prepared extensively for this moment.

“But it feels like it’s all ruined before it even began.”

Instead of cautious movements or scouting, the enemy had charged in, swords drawn, cutting through soldiers before even considering whether to fight.

Without speaking, their intent was clear—in their actions, in their demeanor, in their sheer presence.

“As expected.”

The plan had failed.

Now that the Naurillia forces stationed at the rear were mobilizing, the situation would undoubtedly become more chaotic for their own headquarters.

So, what now?

Should he give up entirely?

The death of Michi Hurrier’s heir? That was fine. That family treated their children like disposable tools anyway.

What mattered now was where he would go from here.

But allowing his mind to wander with such thoughts was a distraction. He had to focus. He would worry about the rest later.

The mustached man steadied himself and drew his sword.

Shing.

A swift, deliberate draw. The blade glinted in the sunlight as he held it steady before his eyes.

“I’ll kill them all.”

So what if the enemy guerrilla unit had bypassed the trap and charged in? This wasn’t a cause for panic—it was an opportunity.

“First, I’ll kill him.”

The soldier who had driven a hole into Michi Hurrier’s stomach.

“Then the blonde swordsman at his side. And next, the one with the axe.”

He planned to conserve his strength, dealing with each target methodically while preparing for counterattacks.

Fixing his gaze on his primary opponent, he realized something.

“Was he always like this?”

There was something unusual about the soldier standing before him. Just from his stance, it was clear—his presence was different. This was no ordinary opponent.

It was the same man who had stabbed Michi Hurrier and escaped, narrowly surviving an assassin’s blade.

But had he been this capable back then?

No, the man’s skills had clearly improved. Still, that didn’t change the outcome—he was just another enemy to be cut down.

The mustached man’s eyes gleamed with resolve.

Watching this, Kraiss felt a wave of unease.

“He doesn’t seem ordinary.”

Kraiss lacked the ability to assess an opponent’s strength directly, and that lack of knowledge fed his anxiety.

The enemy had set a trap, and Kraiss had seen through their intentions.

So the plan was simple—clash head-on and break through with sheer force. That was the Mad Platoon’s way.

Kraiss believed in their strength, but the anxiety still lingered. Perhaps it was his nature to always imagine the worst-case scenario.

And so, the outcome would depend on this fight—between his squad leader and the mustached swordsman.

Kraiss’s eyes shifted toward the two combatants.

The air seemed to grow heavy, almost suffocating, as though the atmosphere itself were bearing down on them.

The spring sunlight filtered through the space between them. Neither moved, each poised with sword in hand.

Dust, which had hung in the air, drifted lazily away in the soft breeze.

In Kraiss’s eyes, the two figures seemed to blur, as though they were fading from view.

Clang!

The sound of clashing steel shattered the stillness.

***

Ragna stood to the side, watching like a spectator.

"Not bad."

The mustached opponent’s swordsmanship was sharp, polished from years of disciplined training and practice. His technique bore the hallmarks of experience, the kind that comes from countless refinements—a sword wielded like a craftsman’s tool.

It reminded Ragna of a meticulously crafted piece of furniture, smooth and well-finished, the result of a master’s touch.

And then there was Enkrid.

"Rough."

Despite endless sharpening and refinement, his technique still felt incomplete. He was like an unfinished vessel, raw and unpolished, yet brimming with potential.

On one side stood someone nearing completion.

On the other, a work in progress.

"What, is this supposed to be some kind of boss fight? It’s boring."

The barbarian muttered under his breath. Ragna didn’t bother responding.

Instead, Jaxon offered a retort in his usual deadpan tone.

"If you’re bored, start cleaning."

Even as the tension hung in the air, Jaxon remained unbothered, his calm voice cutting through the moment.

"So many people want to stand by my side today. Truly, it is a blessed occasion," Audin chimed in from nearby, his words laden with religious fervor.

Aside from the mustached man facing Enkrid, the rest of the enemy soldiers had formed a perimeter, spears aimed in all directions.

At a glance, their numbers were more than triple those of Enkrid’s group.

Close to fifty soldiers surrounded them, with a few having emerged from the supply wagons. Each one was well-equipped, and three of them even wore chainmail armor, hinting at their durability.

Despite the odds, the Mad Platoon members remained calm, their demeanor bordering on nonchalant.

Clink.

One of the chainmail-wearing soldiers shifted and spoke up.

"Should we start after that’s done?"

He gestured casually toward Enkrid and the mustached man with his thumb, exuding confidence.

This, despite the fact that corpses from Ragna’s earlier rampage still lay scattered around them.

"Sounds good," Kraiss replied smoothly. "Winning the duel first would definitely give us the upper hand."

The exchange felt surreal, but the duel between Enkrid and the mustached man was anything but.

The clang of clashing swords rang out, sparks flying as their blades met again and again.

Ragna shut out the commotion around him.

None of it mattered.

His attention was solely on Enkrid—his hands, his feet, his blade, and his movements.

Between completion and incompletion, who holds the advantage?

Clang!

The sharp sound of metal against metal was followed by the screeching of blades grinding together.

"Completion."

Of course, the polished warrior had the edge.

But what if the vessel itself was fundamentally different? What if its potential far outweighed its current state?

"It’s over."

Ragna silently reached his conclusion.

It wasn’t just a difference in skill—it was a disparity in mindset.

The mustached man lacked the will to overcome. Even if his skill was superior, his hesitation, his inability to fully commit, would ultimately lead to his defeat.

***

Blade, footwork, sword, air, dust, heat.

Despite all these sensations brushing past, Enkrid paid them no mind.

He neither saw them nor felt them. His focus remained entirely on the sword.

“Haah!”

The mustached opponent roared, slashing down with a heavy strike. His sword followed the fundamentals of middle swordsmanship—a deliberate, weighty blow.

Enkrid grasped his sword with both hands, tilting it horizontally to deflect the strike as he bent his knees to absorb the impact.

The force was redirected, sliding off to the side.

Kiiiiiiiing!

Blades collided, sparks flying.

While the opponent fought with strength, Enkrid countered with finesse.

The roles reversed in the next exchange. Enkrid launched a powerful strike, forcing his opponent to block and deflect the blow with precision.

It was a clean, fluid technique.

More refined than even the late Michi Hurrier’s.

Not that Enkrid thought of Michi Hurrier during the fight—his mind, eyes, ears, hands, and feet were entirely attuned to the battle at hand.

He focused every fiber of his being on wielding the sword, employing every skill he possessed: the precision of a single-point focus, the ferocity of the Beast’s Heart, and the instinctive awareness of blade dynamics.

Strike.

Deflect.

Follow through.

Enkrid connected point to point, line to line, all while reading his opponent’s intent—blocking, dodging, and responding in kind.

Ten exchanges later, Enkrid faced two moments of peril.

The first came when his wrist was nearly sliced, saved only by catching the blade’s edge on his sword guard and redirecting it.

The second came from a rapid switch in attack patterns—a horizontal and vertical slash combo that abruptly transitioned into a thrust aimed straight for his abdomen.

Enkrid barely managed to block, angling his blade’s flat surface to deflect the deadly point.

It was a near miss, a maneuver bordering on miraculous.

Had his timing been even slightly off, his leather armor would have been left with a gaping hole—and his flesh with an even worse one.

“Tsk.”

The mustached opponent clicked his tongue in irritation as his sudden thrust missed. It was an unspoken declaration: I’ll finish this soon.

Enkrid ignored it.

After the second close call, Enkrid shifted his stance, stepping to his left.

The mustached opponent followed suit, adjusting his position to maintain an advantageous angle.

They circled each other, their swords just within striking range.

As they moved, Enkrid deliberately shifted his left hand behind his right shoulder, creating a subtle feint. He gripped his sword with only his right hand, while his left moved toward his waist.

The opponent caught the movement immediately.

Years of duels and battle-hardened instincts kicked in. He predicted Enkrid’s next move—his left hand reaching for the second sword.

He was already annoyed by the dual-wielding style Enkrid had displayed earlier.

‘Left hand.’

As soon as he saw Enkrid’s left hand drop, the mustached opponent seized the opportunity.

He raised his blade high and brought it down in a powerful diagonal slash—from upper right to lower left.

A heavy strike, the hallmark of middle swordsmanship. This would decide the match.

But Enkrid never drew his second sword.

It was a feint, nothing more.

At that moment, he unleashed the move he’d prepared all along.

“Beast’s Heart.”

Thump!

His heart thundered, the explosive rhythm sending a surge of blood coursing through his veins.

The burst of adrenaline brought strength—nearly double his usual power.

There was no battle cry, no outward display. Only Enkrid’s bloodshot eyes locking with the opponent’s.

It was a clash where a single strike would determine life or death.

Facing the incoming diagonal slash, Enkrid swung his sword horizontally with just one hand.

Clang!

Ching!

Thwack!

Three sounds rang out almost simultaneously.

When the dust settled, their positions had shifted.

With their backs now turned to one another, the mustached opponent spoke.

“Was this your plan all along?”

“From the start.”

The mustached man’s sword was intact—clean of blood—but split cleanly in two.

Enkrid’s blade, on the other hand, remained whole.

The opponent collapsed forward.

Blood gushed from his chest, pouring through a deep gash where his ribs had been shattered, leaving his heart exposed.

Even a man like Frokk wouldn’t survive a blow like that.

For the mustached opponent—once the last hope of the Grey Dogs—this was the end.

The name Grey Dogs would fade into history.

“Huff.”

Exhaling deeply, Enkrid wiped his sword clean.

His opponent had been too focused on his left hand.

Enkrid had set up that moment from the beginning, using a technique from the Valen School of Mercenary Swordsmanship.

It was a method of showing opponents a specific attack pattern, implanting it into their minds to complicate their thought processes.

‘It works.’

Enkrid was less elated by his victory and more thrilled by his progress.

‘I’ve got it.’

It filled his chest with a euphoric sense of accomplishment.

Dual wielding doesn’t always have to take center stage.

The right weapon or move at the right moment was what mattered most.

‘Spears, shields, other weapons—I can use those too.’

What he’d once considered out of reach now felt possible.

Experimenting with different styles wouldn’t hurt, even if nothing fit quite as perfectly as a sword.

“Not bad.”

Enkrid muttered, his words soft but filled with satisfaction.

“Why does watching the boss fight always get me so excited?”

Rem grinned, clearly exhilarated. His lips curled into a wide smile, the corners practically touching his ears.

The three chainmail-wearing enemies, however, remained unfazed by the mustached man’s death.

“Hmm. He shouldn’t have died like that.”

“A shame.”

“He underestimated his opponent. A proper duel requires proper respect.”

Their words revealed their understanding: Enkrid’s full power had overwhelmed their comrade’s hesitation.

“So, what now? Should we all go at once?”

Rem stepped forward eagerly.

A large hand, resembling a bear’s paw, landed on his shoulder.

“That’s greedy, brother.”

It was Audin, shaking his head.

“Move your hand, or I’ll cut it off.”

Rem’s playful tone turned cold, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Audin’s expression didn’t waver, but his laughter faded.

“I’m serious, brother. Don’t get carried away.”

“You’re asking for it.”

Whoosh. Thud.

Rem swung his axe vertically, a clean and precise movement.

Audin dodged backward, surprisingly nimble for his size.

The air between them grew tense, crackling with unspoken hostility.

Audin’s typically jovial face became as still and cold as a statue.

The chainmail trio exchanged confused glances.

“What’s wrong with these lunatics?”

“Are they fighting each other… over who gets to fight us?”

It was sheer mockery. A blatant insult.

“Insane bastards.”

One of the chainmail warriors finally stepped forward, wielding a large mace.

But before he could act, a sword blocked his path.

“You’re mine.”

Ragna, with his golden hair and fiery red eyes, challenged him. His strikes came as fast and relentless as flames.

The mace-wielder swung his round shield like a weapon, both defending and attacking at once.

Bang!

Ragna’s blade clashed against the shield, rebounding like a swallow skimming water.

“Cutting in line, are we?”

Rem charged forward, his excitement rekindled.

“Order must be maintained, brother!” Audin followed.

The battle erupted again.